05 Mar Improv, Interrupted: How I Found Myself Between School Drop-Off and Dinner
Kathy Sena finds a little self-realisation — and a lot of laughter — through improvisation.
…we weren’t so much looking to run away from something as we were looking to embrace something else – our true selves; the kid inside who once rolled around on the floor, wore play clothes and made tents out of sheets flung over the kitchen table.
Matthew and I bounce in our chairs at the kitchen table. He pumps his 10-year-old fist in the air as I call out, in my best rap-star voice, “Yo water! Yo water!” He grins, then takes up the chant.
Could this possibly be the same mum who nags him to rinse the toothpaste gunk from the sink, pick up his footy boots from the bottom of the stairs and write thank-you notes?
Soon we’re snaking our way around the kitchen in a silly rap-conga line, showing off our best moves and making up improbable songs that follow my improv teacher’s instructions: “Create a rap song using a nursery rhyme with an exercise theme. Then do it in front of the class, with the rest of the class as your back-up rappers.”
Gee, no pressure there.
“Jack and Jill.” (Say it with me, now.) “Ran up the hill. To fetch a pail of water. Yo water! Yo water…”
“Hickory, dickory dock.” (Don’t forget your moves, back-up rappers.) “The mouse ran up the clock. Yo clock! Yo clock!”
Same-old, same-old… until improv
This other life of mine began innocently enough. While I was grateful to be facing no serious problems, life was feeling sort of same-old, same-old: kiss hubby good morning, take Matt to school, hang out washing, work on writing projects, hit the supermarket, take Matt to soccer practice, make dinner, watch TV, lather, rinse, repeat.
Then the program of courses offered by the local college of further education arrived, promising belly dancing, digital photography, Japanese cooking and introductory improvised theatre — or ‘improv’.
Improv? I was intrigued. No lines to memorise and no chance of failing a course with no exams — and all for less than twenty dollars a class. I signed up. Unlike the rest of my life — marriage, motherhood, career — this was a short-term commitment. I was ready for one of those.
It was also (insert dramatic pause) all about me.
On the eve of my first class, I peeked into the classroom to see April, our instructor, along with a roomful of seemingly ordinary people. Young and old. Thin and not-so-thin. Singles, parents, grandparents.
I went on to meet women seeking a break from mothering toddlers, from mothering teens, from too much TV, from too many hot flushes. But we weren’t so much looking to run away from something as we were looking to embrace something else — our true selves; the kid inside who once rolled around on the floor, wore play clothes and made tents out of sheets flung over the kitchen table.
The surprising rules of improv (that work at home too)
April was our ringleader. And what games she had up her sleeve.
Over the next few weeks I became a hair stylist enduring the wrath of a suddenly bald woman; did my best Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation (complete with flexing biceps); and performed an impromptu ballet. I also learned a few Rules of Improv that have turned out to be pretty good Rules for Life.
First: If you believe it, they’ll believe it.
You can’t dive into an improv scene half-heartedly. The more I throw myself into being a crazed pizza-delivery person, a bowling-pin salesman or a high-fashion superhero, the better the scene.
And back on the home front? What kid can’t sense — just like a dog can smell fear — when his parents are less than convinced about a particular house rule? You have to believe.
Then there’s: Everyone needs a barracking section.
In class, nobody starts a scene without April shouting, “Let’s give it up for…!” which is followed by enough whooping and clapping to make each of us willing to leap headfirst into whatever crazy scenario unfolds.
I felt a bit let down the day after my first class when I managed to find my husband’s lost keys, make my son’s breakfast, toss in a load of washing, hit the treadmill, grab a quick shower, locate a missing library book and take Matthew to school — all by 8.06am. Nobody seemed remotely interested in giving it up for dear old mum.
So I learned to ask for my props — and even provide sample cheers. These days, we’re all quicker to say “thanks” and “well done”.
And lastly: What’s a little embarrassment?
When an improv flops, the floor doesn’t fall from under me. I don’t die. Twenty minutes later, I get another go.
Is the real world all that different?
Why doing something just for you matters
I cranked up the radio and belted out tunes as I drove home from class that first night. When I got home, I was feeling fantastic. And when was the last time this working mother of a 10-year-old had felt energised at 10pm?
I was hooked.
So for a couple of hours each Wednesday night, I become Kathy, The Improv Queen. I stretch my brain as well as my body. I even forget, for the evening, that I’m somebody’s wife and mother.
And that, according to this rap star’s husband and son, is exactly what makes me better at being both.
